Entertaining inspiration with a humorous twist

Matthew awoke with a pounding headache, sore throat, a mushy brain and a hangover that seemed to have hung on for weeks. He was lying in a fancy circular bed covered with satin sheets, in a bedroom which looked like a tribute to the color red.

He tried to focus on where he was. After about thirty seconds of trimming away frustration, he uncovered the fact that he was in Amsterdam.

Suddenly it all came back to him. He had spent the night before sharing a bong with a young female Chinese capitalist–an oil speculator from the United Arab Emirates, and a Lutheran minister from Southern California. He vaguely remembered their discussion as one punctuated with verbosity, absent much profundity.

Then, leaving the gathering of the “three wise ones,” he headed into the street and found himself at the De Wallen–often referred to as the “Windows” street of Amsterdam, because in window after window, prostitutes posed, availble for purchase–a Christmas display of female flesh.

As he remembered more, he recalled coming upon a window with a tall blond girl with spiked hair and deep-set, dark eyes. For some reason, he had decided he had to have her. So he stepped into her room. She pulled the curtains for privacy and he made arrangements with her–with one stipulation. He wanted her to be with him all night.

It was an expensive necessity, for the last thing in the world Matthew wanted was to be kicked out of his bed of pleasure because his time was up.

And it was pleasurable. Perhaps a little predictable and unemotional, but the woman he chose was certainly adept at the craft of love, if not the feeling.

Still lying in his bed, he turned his head and saw her sleeping next to him. What was her name? He knew she told him, because he commented on it. All at once, he remembered his own joke.

“Did you say girdle?”

She didn’t find it funny, but since she was a hired employee, she choked out a giggle. Her real name was Gerta.

As he gazed at her, he wanted to wake her up. He wanted to talk to her. Actually, he wanted her to give a damn about him. He felt a bit feminine–like a young girl who gives away her cherry, hoping that her lover would want to hang around for the rest of the “Sunday.”

All at once she stirred. “Are you awake?” she asked in the most crackly, sexy voice he had ever heard.

“I am,” he whispered, trying to be equally as appealing. Unfortunately, his voice sounded more like he had bronchitis.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked with her thick German accent.

“I did,” Matthew replied. He realized the conversation would go nowhere unless he inserted greater input. “Gerta, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” she said, turning over and exposing her perfect breasts and beautifully bronzed skin.

Matthew gasped. Gerta laughed. She pulled the sheet up so as to take away the temptation to stall conversation.

Matthew took a deep breath and inquired, “Am I a good lover? And please–tell me the truth.”

Gerta burst into laughter. “This is always what the men want to know. Usually they want me to score them in comparison–sometimes even by nationalities.”

Matthew was quite offended. “Well, I don’t want anything like that. I’m just horribly insecure at this point in my life, and I would like to know, deep in my heart, that my penis is doing well.”

Gerta sat up with her arms dangling in front of her and asked, “Do you want the truth or do you want me to make you feel extra, extra, extra good?”

“Wow,” said Matthew. “That’s scary shit.”

Gerta frowned. “I’m not familiar with ‘scary shit.’ Would that be an unexpected bowel movement, or a discoloration?”

She was dead serious. Matthew had his own fit of laughter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so American. Scary shit just means it’s really, really, really scary.”

“I see,” said Gerta, as if cataloguing the phrase into her brain trust. “So, which is it, big boy? Do you want the truth, or do you want me to make it more padded and less, as you say, scary shit?”

She said it so cutely that he wanted to kiss her.

“I guess I want the truth,” said Matthew.

“The truth is, you’re average. Average looks. Average penis size. Average length of time it takes you to reach the top of your mountain. And average minutes for you to fall asleep afterwards.”

Matthew pretended to wipe sweat from his brown. “Phew… And here I thought I was a loser.”

There was a pause while both of them stared at a small shaft of light that had figured out how to wiggle through the dark curtains.

At length, Matthew said, “Thank you for staying all night.”

“Thank you for the money,” said Gerta.

“Why are you a prostitute?” he suddenly asked.

“Why do you ask foolish questions?” she countered, slinging her legs over the side of the bed, standing to her feet and scurrying into the bathroom for a quick pee.

“I’m sorry,” said Matthew, speaking through the wall. “I think being a prostitute is…unusual.”

She emerged, having donned panties, and slipping on his ragged t-shirt. She still looked beautiful.

“Listen, sir,” she said, sitting on the side of the bed. “Being a whore is unusual. Being a prostitute is a job. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m in my last two months.”

Matthew sat up, shocked. “Your last two months of what?”

She reached over, grabbed a cup of water and took a sip. “I am a contracted prostitute. You see, here in the Netherlands, everything is done by law, to keep things proper. So my contract is up in two months, and even though I’ve renewed three or four times, this is my last.”

“What will you do?” asked Matthew. “I’m not trying to be nosy, but since we’ve exchanged bodily fluids, I thought a little questioning might be permitted.”

She didn’t smile. It was obvious she did not find her work to be a matter of silliness. Her eyes suddenly lit up. It was like they began to dance across her face in jubilation.

“A month ago I went to Paris and participated in the Carlos Movement.”

Matthew nearly fainted. Never in his mind’s eye could he have envisioned laying in the bed of a prostitute in Amsterdam, trying to recover from a night of excessive marijuana, and hearing the name “Jubal Carlos.”

She proceeded on. “I went there on a lark. I was sure that since it was a religious movement, that once they found out I was a prostitute from Amsterdam, from the De Wallen, they would be condemning of me. So I walked up to one of the workers who appeared she might be the most prickly one, and I said, what do you think your Jesus feels about me? I’m a prostitute from Amsterdam.”

“This worker took my hands and said, ‘Well, I know what he thinks. You’re the one he’s been waiting for.'”

Matthew closed his eyes. Had to be Sister Rolinda. No doubt about it. When he reopened his eyes, he saw that Gerta was crying.

“I don’t know why it struck me so,” she said, “and why it still moves my heart this morning, but the idea of Jesus waiting for me just overcame all my barriers. I danced, I ate, I embraced, I drank some wine and I listened to the message of Father Carlos. At the end I came back to the woman who said those words to me, and I told her, ‘I’m glad Jesus was waiting for me, because I have been waiting for him for a long time.’ She hugged me until I nearly broke and led me into a deeper understanding of a new beginning. So I came back here, gave my…notice? Is that what they say in America? Anyway, now I’m waiting.”

Matthew frowned. “You still didn’t answer my question. What will you do?”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. They asked me to join the team. They want me to fly around and share my story. I can’t think of anything more exciting.”

Matthew tried to lighten the moment. “So… Now you’ve been with Jesus. How would you rate him?”

Gerta stared at Matthew as if looking through his backbone all the way to his soul. It made him uncomfortable, so he tumbled out of the bed, searching unsuccessfully for his underwear. He slid on his pants and shoes, requested his shirt, plopped it on, and headed to the door.

He paused and turned back to Gerta, who was cradling her breasts. “What if telling your story is not as exciting as being a prostitute?”

Once again, she gave him that deep, all-knowing glance. “What if it’s not as painful?” she responded.

Matthew nodded his head, opened the door and entered the streets of Amsterdam, immediately hailing a cab. While waiting for his transportation to come to the curb, he was thinking.

How did this simple idea get all the way to De Wallen Street in Amsterdam?

Seated in the back, Matthew looked up on the dashboard, where there would normally be a picture of the driver along with his license. In its place was a handbill with a photo of Jubal Carlos, and, in what appeared to be German, the words: “Live from Berlin.”

He glanced into the rearview mirror and saw the eyes of the cabbie.They were those eyes–bright, hopeful and mysteriously enlightened.

Matthew shook his head and whispered to himself, “Jesus Christ. He is everywhere.”

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